80 in 10
by Imadra Blue
Summary: A series of ten brief stories, all inter-connected, on Yamamoto Takeshi's life, character, and relationships with various people, especially his father, Superbi Squalo, and Hibari Kyōya. Each story follows a particular theme. Gen and slash.


**Pairing:** This is a mixture of gen, Hibari/Yamamoto (1880), and Squalo/Yamamoto (S80).  
**Disclaimer:** _Katekyō Hitman Reborn!_ and all its characters are property of Amano Akira. No copyright infringement is intended.  
**Notes:** This started out as the Head Canon Meme, where you list ten facts about a certain character. Only it turned into a story format, so I figured I might as well make it a fic. Or rather, a series of flashfics strung together like a popcorn garland. They're in no particular chronological order. Thanks to Oberstein for providing the following five prompts: shoulder, camellia, bicycle, train, and neighbor. As with all my fics, concrit is welcome and appreciated.

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**1. **_**Okaasan.**_

Takeshi's mother smelled of Mild Seven Original cigarettes and jasmine perfume-a scent that made her smell like a whore, his father angrily informed her after she came home one morning, after a two day absence. The next evening, she tiptoed into Takeshi's room, reeking of jasmine and cigarettes, and bent over him to adjust his covers. He kept his eyes tightly shut, so she would think him asleep, even though he was very awake-he never could sleep through his parents' arguments. The kiss to his forehead felt wetter than usual, and after he heard the door to his room close, Takeshi wiped her kiss off. The next day, he discovered that his frog-shaped rock was missing from his collection of unusual things. He would spend the rest of his life wondering why she took it.

When Takeshi asked about his mother's whereabouts, his father told him that she died in an accident. He said she would never come back. Only one of those statements was true.

Though he knew his father had lied, Takeshi set a picture of his mother in their small family shrine. He prayed for her as if she were dead and performed all the proper rituals on all the right days. The fighting stopped when she left, but Takeshi missed it. A strange quiet settled over his house, a silence so deafening that at night, his ears rang.

A few months after her disappearance, Takeshi's father smile returned. Even when people asked him what happened to his beautiful wife, he still managed to smile-a smile as fake and plastic as any mask found in a store. But after the customers left and the dishes were washed, Takeshi's father sat in a chair before the shrine, stared at Takeshi's mother's picture without expression, and smoked a single cigarette: Mild Seven Original, every time.

"That's rough," Takeshi said when he first heard of Gokudera's family troubles, instantly sympathizing with the other boy's family issues. Takeshi never spoke of his own mother, of how she never loved him enough to stay-that it was not death that parted them, but her own desires. Instead, he smiled-a smile as fake and plastic as any mask found in a store-and planned to make sushi for breakfast to cheer up Gokudera.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi never told Gokudera that a dead mother who loved him was better than a living one who did not.

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**2. **_**Okome.**_

Making good sushi required a chef to make good rice. Takeshi's father had spent three years mastering the rice alone. Takeshi did not understand why it should take so long, but he simply followed his father's instruction. Soon, he would be a master of sushi rice, too.

Every morning before baseball practice, Takeshi washed the rice for his father. He filled a bowl of rice with water and then swirled the rice around with his hand. When the starch turned the water as white as milk, he drained the rice and repeated the process until the water ran clear. Once the rice was properly washed, he set it out to dry and headed out to the baseball field. Washing the rice felt like how the monks described meditation, though real meditation did nothing but make Takeshi sleepy. He felt as if he washed the impurities from both his mind as and the rice. The one morning he ran late and forgot to wash the rice, he had the worst batting average of his entire life.

Ten years in the future, before the Choice battle, Takeshi finally returned home and headed straight to the kitchen. He filled a bowl of rice with water, washed the starch off, drained the water, and repeated until the water ran clear. After setting the rice to dry on the counter, he filled a bucket with soap and water. He then scrubbed his father's dried blood from the steps that led up to their bedrooms. When he was done, he walked around town and pretended he had never gone home at all.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi hated to wash the rice.

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**3. **_**Gyūnyū.**_

Takeshi drank a glass of milk with every meal. There were all sorts of reasons to drink milk-because of its calcium, because of the Vitamin D-but Takeshi drank it because he liked the taste. Milk tasted smooth and simple, with a hint of sweetness, and if milk were a vice, he would be as addicted to it as much as Gokudera was to his cigarettes. It washed bad tastes from his mouth and left him feeling clean. If it were not for his father's reminders, he would forget to brush his teeth, for he considered milk as good as toothpaste.

Many Japanese were lactose intolerant, and Takeshi was glad he was not one of them. He could drink milk all day long and never get sick, while Tsuna, after half a cup, developed a look of alarm and ran for the nearest toilet. Takeshi always imagined that Westerners never had those problems, but to his surprise, he discovered that many Italians were also lactose intolerant, especially Southern Italians.

"Voi! I'm Sicilian, katana-brat! Sicilian!" Squalo screamed after Takeshi commented on the irony of Squalo being lactose intolerant, while Takeshi was not. When Takeshi mentioned that he thought Sicily was part of Italy, Squalo treated him to a lecture on Sicily's status as an autonomous region of Italy, and how it should not ever be confused for Italy. Squalo emphasized its uniqueness in dulcet tones, educating Takeshi on Sicily's history as a kingdom in its own right until 1860-a bleak year, according to Squalo. The older swordsman delivered the lecture in his mid-range volume, which meant that only a few people outside of the forest could hear him.

When Takeshi pointed out that he had only stated that it was sad that he had no milk to drink with his half-cooked fish, Squalo lectured him again, this time about being grateful for what he had. Takeshi suspected Squalo could be heard on the edges of town during the second lecture. To test a theory, Takeshi made sure to complain about the lack of milk again before they went to sleep. Squalo proved his hypothesis correct by screaming at him to shut up in a volume loud enough that approximately sixty five percent of Japan heard.

The next morning, Takeshi was awoken by a deafening "Voooiii!" and a carton of fresh milk thrust into his face by a scowling Squalo.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi suspected that despite being named a shark, Squalo's bark was worse than his bite.

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**4. **_**Machi.**_

There was nothing in Namimori of any worth, Takeshi's mother repeatedly told him. After she left, Takeshi realized this included him and his father.

Takeshi inherited only two things from his mother: his good looks and the desire to leave Namimori. He did not speak of his desire aloud, because he knew if he did, he would betray his father as badly as his mother had. Instead, he smiled as he walked down the streets of Namimori, ignoring how they never went anywhere, and pretended that he did not dream of living somewhere else, anywhere else.

But Takeshi did dream. He dreamt of busy, bustling Tokyo, where it would be easier to get into the major leagues. He dreamt of classic, rugged Italy, where sharks bearing swords and mafia games awaited him. It was those mafia games that made Namimori bearable. He could pretend he was someone really special and not just another Japanese teenager obsessed with playing professional baseball. When he played mafia games, he was a hero-a swordsman whose friends needed him to help them win in life or death situations.

Games and dreams, but no realities. Even in the future, Takeshi discovered he had not left Namimori. He trained as hard as he could so they could invade the Melone Base and return home, but, as with everything else in his life, he was not getting anywhere. Frustration prevented him from sleeping the night through, so he wandered the halls of the hideout, tired of the same hallways, the same rooms. It was this cabin fever that led Takeshi to Hibari's institute one night-along with curiosity, boredom, and perhaps even a little masochism.

The quiet institute suited Hibari perfectly. Japanese culture dripped from every printed sliding door, from every low table bearing artfully arranged flowers, from every watercolor painting with elegant poetry inscribed in the corner. Namimori memorabilia provided an addendum on Japanese specifics. Namimori pictures hung from the walls, Namimori trophies sparkled under the lights, and even a model replica of Namimori sat on a table. Hibari seemed Takeshi's complete opposite.

Yet, in one room, Takeshi found pictures of Tokyo, Hong Kong, Moscow, Rome, Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles, and other cities he could not recognize. Expensive katana decorated the wall, and baseball equipment stood in the corner. He found his collection of unusual things, all in perfect condition, in a glass case, along with other unusual things he did not recognize, such as a small sign that warned for frogs crossing and a penis-shaped firecracker. On a desk, his own signature scrawled across an invoice for the model replica of Namimori-he had apparently paid extra to include a note wishing Hibari a happy birthday.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi had never been more confused in his life.

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**5. **_**Kata.**_

"This is your room," the adult Hibari explained to Takeshi, interrupting Takeshi's search through his future self's things.

Takeshi jumped and spun around, prepared to defend himself. Hibari leaned against the doorframe, face turned away, as chill as a mid-winter breeze. His yukata had slipped down one shoulder, revealing creamy white skin. Takeshi stared at Hibari's bared flesh, suddenly not caring if he was bitten to death. How could someone so strong appear so delicate?

"My room?" Takeshi asked. Hibari liked his space. He had made that abundantly clear multiple times. Even Takeshi understood the message. So why would Hibari let Takeshi's future self stay at his institute? Why would his future self even want to?

"Or rather, it's where you keep your things. You sleep in my bedroom. You can sleep there now, if you like." Hibari glanced at Takeshi and tilted his head. He kept his eyes narrowed, as always, but they glittered with a very adult interest.

"I-I don't-but-" Words and the thoughts that formed them refused any attempt at coherence, so Takeshi closed his mouth and continued to stare at Hibari with wide eyes.

"You can just sleep." Hibari started to walk away. "You're too young for anything else."

Unable to process much beyond the shock over his future self's relationship with Hibari, Takeshi followed him down the long hallway. His gaze fixed on Hibari's bare shoulder, and he wildly wondered if his future self had ever kissed it.

Hibari turned into a room down the hall. He stripped off his yukata and sat on a large bed with rumpled violet and blue sheets. The gaze he fixed on Takeshi's face seemed expectant.

"I can't-I mean, I haven't-I don't-" Takeshi babbled, his breath labored, his heart pounding against his sternum, his palms sweaty. He kept his gaze pinned to Hibari's delicate shoulder, trying not to think about _how the rest of Hibari was naked_, or about what his father would think, or about what it might feel like to translate his fantasies into reality.

"Just sleep." Hibari rolled over and pulled the sheets over his body. The lack of bare flesh made it easier for Takeshi to breathe, but the dips and curves of Hibari's body beneath those sheets did not alleviate the tightness in Takeshi's pants.

Takeshi climbed onto the bed and stared at Hibari's back. Since coming to the future, everything felt unreal, but nothing more unreal than this. His stomach performed high-speed katas, but he could not resist the lure of Hibari's graceful shoulder. He ran his fingers over the skin, finding it as smooth as it looked, but warmer than expected. Hibari did not turn to him or say anything, so Takeshi lay down, finding Hibari's skin and the peaceful room soothing. He thought he caught a whiff of jasmine in the air.

It was not until he woke that Takeshi realized he had finally fallen asleep. He expected to find out that his encounter with Hibari was all some crazy dream brought on by too much training, too much mourning, and not enough masturbation.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi never thought to wake up with Hibari nestled tightly against him.

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**6. **_**Yakyū.**_

Baseball had always been Takeshi's solace. When his parents' fights grew too loud, he would close his eyes and imagine playing baseball. Soon, the angry accusations transformed into cheers and encouragement for his team. Arguments over money, the future, even Takeshi, no longer mattered. All that mattered was the game, the way the ball felt in his hand just before he threw it, the way the bat cracked into a ball thrown at him, the way he ran from base to base, flying like a dart towards a board, sliding home with the deafening roar of his name chanted by the crowd.

Takeshi could not remember a time that he did not played baseball. His father played catch with him since he could walk, constantly encouraging him. When Takeshi finally learned to hit the ball, his father smiled-a real smile, not made of plastic. Takeshi longed to to hit the ball every time, because he imagined that if he did, his father would never stop smiling. When he grew old enough, Takeshi practiced at the baseball field every morning, cutting through the park, whistling in anticipation as he walked the tree-lined pathways.

Many of the boys on Takeshi's team had fathers who mercilessly drove them to play baseball, but his father was quite the opposite, actually. His father did not drive him to do anything, be it homework or washing rice or playing baseball-but that only drove Takeshi to play even harder. There was a gulf of open water that stood between him and his father, and Takeshi had only one way to cross it. His father lived his own life, private even from his own son, a life of sushi, watching baseball, and smoking a single cigarette every night before the picture of a woman he pretended was dead. He loved Takeshi, served him dinner with a smile, and never scolded him for his grades. But a wall of things best left unsaid separated them. Baseball, and baseball alone, created a door in that wall.

When Takeshi broke his arm practicing and could not play baseball, he did not fear his father's anger or disappointment. He feared that the one bridge linking the shores of the gulf that lay between them had just gone up in flames. He could not give his father good grades. He could not give him the promise of remaining at his side in Namimori. He could not even give him a perfect bowl of sushi rice. All he could give his father was a good baseball game. If he failed at that, then he would have nothing. No mother, no father, no reason to live. These were the thoughts that ran through his head as he stood at the edge of the roof, staring down at the beckoning cement below.

And then Tsuna appeared and changed everything.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi almost sacrificed himself because he feared that he had lost baseball, but after Tsuna saved him, he would sacrifice baseball so he would not lose his friends.

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**7. **_**Jitensha.**_

Because Takeshi bought Tsuna a bicycle for his birthday, Tsuna rode his bicycle to school in the third year of middle-high. Because Tsuna rode his bicycle to school every day, his tire went flat one morning. Because Tsuna's tire went flat, Shōichi Irie walked by and stopped to fix it. Because Shōichi fixed Tsuna's bike, they became friends. Because Tsuna and Shōichi became friends, they came up with the idea to transport Tsuna and his family to the future to defeat Byakuran. Because they needed to defeat Byakuran, Shōichi developed the Vongola boxes that allowed them to do so. Because Tsuna and his friends defeated Byakuran, they were able to return to the past. Because they returned to the past, Takeshi bought Tsuna a bicycle for his birthday.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi's gift was the progenitor of a temporal paradox, but he only gave it to Tsuna because he thought the other boy would like it.

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**8. **_**Tsubaki.**_

Takeshi knew nothing about flowers, beyond that they were pretty and girls liked to leave them on his desk before for some mysterious reason. One morning, he found a pretty pink flower with odd-shaped leaves. The leaves resembled fish-tails after some inspection. It was a funny flower, different from the others, so he decided to press it in his algebra book-he did not open the book on a regular basis, in any case. When he got home, he pasted it to a piece of white cardboard, wondering which girl left the flower for him and why. He considered buying a frame for it-after all, it was unusual, and it fit in with his collection of unusual things: a star-shaped rock, a fox-shaped quartz crystal, a crumpled piece of paper that resembled the American president, a chocolate-covered baseball, and other such things he usually hid in his drawer. Unlike those items, these flowers seemed like something he could safely display without fear of his father throwing them away.

The next day, Takeshi found another pink flower with fish-tailed leaves. He pressed that one in his history book and took it home to paste it beside the first flower. He received another flower the next day and pasted it beside the first two. After a week, he ran out of room on the cardboard, so he bought a frame and hung it over his bed. The pink petals had turned an ancient red since being pressed, but the leaves looked more like fish than ever. The flowers brightened up his white walls, adding the perfect splash of color, a spot of interest in his otherwise mundane room.

Takeshi's father told him the flower's name after cleaning his room the next day: _kingyo-tsubaki_. The Japanese camellia had been named for its fish-tailed leaves, and it was considered rare. Rare meant special to Takeshi, and he could not understand why a girl would leave a rare flower on his desk.

On his way home from afternoon practice, Takeshi spotted a shrub filled with _kingyo-tsubaki_. It sat in a pretty little garden, shaded by a cedar tree, near the park he cut through every day-he had never noticed it before, but then, he had not been looking. The shrub bore evidence of recent and clumsy pruning. A girl from his class-was her name Aiko or Keiko?-walked out of her house and dropped her books at the sight of him. She flushed red instantly, her eyebrows disappearing behind her dark bangs, and she stammered his name before rushing back inside.

Even Takeshi did not need Gokudera's genius to figure out that this girl was the one who left him the flowers. After a moment's consideration, Takeshi finally realized why she gave him her family's rare flowers: she liked him.

Takeshi hung his head and walked back home. It was a shame, really. He liked the flowers, the way they made his room come alive, but it was not right that he keep them. The next morning, he left the flowers, still pressed inside their picture frame, on her desk, with an apology note. He never took home another flower left on his desk.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi did not like girls the way they liked him.

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**9. **_**Densha.**_

The train came once an hour to Namimori Station, even ten years in the future. Usually, it bore businessmen and other workers to Tokyo on their way to or from work. That day, it bore the Vongola Family's two master swordsmen, clinging to the roof, laughing at their adrenaline rush. Five minutes earlier, they had both leapt from a bridge onto the top of the speeding train. Laughing seemed the natural response. They were halfway to "the perfect training spot," according to Squalo, and Takeshi was already having the time of his life.

Though he knew that his future self had some sort of relationship with Hibari, he could not help but wonder, as he watched Squalo roar with mirth, silver hair streaming in the wind, why Hibari and not Squalo. Takeshi could not begin to understand the nature of his future self's relationships with anyone. His older self was as mysterious as Lal Mirch to him. Somehow, in the past ten years, his life had grown complicated.

When Squalo smirked at him, Takeshi's pulse quickened, desire blending with adrenaline. Squalo was beautiful in the way a sword was beautiful, slim and razor sharp and always ready to draw blood. That night, by the campfire, when Squalo shoved him flat and kissed him until he could not breathe, Takeshi did not pause to ask if they had done this before, or why they did this, or what this meant. Squalo did not seem inclined to elaborate, either. They were both more concerned with articles of clothing and how to get them off the other person.

Fact: Yamamoto Takeshi lost his virginity to the same man his future self had.

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**10. **_**Tonari.**_

They had won. Byakuran's power had broken, the Real Six Funeral Wreaths defeated, and the time travelers returned to the past. So why Hibari insisted on challenging Takeshi the day after their return baffled Takeshi.

"We are the strongest," Hibari explained, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, obstructing Takeshi's path. "That is why we have to fight each other." Which made no sense to Takeshi, but then, nothing about Hibari ever made any sense to him.

"I refuse," Takeshi said, laughing, and shouldered his bag once again. Though it was the weekend, he still had baseball practice. He had sacrificed baseball in the future, but not in the present, not in a world where he still had to wash the rice in the morning and blood did not stain his steps. He side-stepped Hibari and cut through the park that led to the field. By the time Takeshi reached a secluded area, where trees held the outside world at bay and dappled shadows blanketed the path, he was almost surprised to find Hibari sitting on the back of a bench. Hibird twittered Namimori Middle High's song from Hibari's finger.

"I saw the way you fought in the future," Hibari said. "I want you to fight like that with me."

Takeshi laughed again. Hibari was always so absurd. "I can't, even if I wanted to. We had to leave our Vongola boxes behind for our future selves, remember?"

Hibari glared, eyes narrowed to slits. "I said the way you fought. Not the equipment you used."

"I don't even know what that means."

Hibari considered him for a long moment. He reminded Takeshi of his future self for a moment-something about his eyes. They possessed an interest that had not been there before the Choice battle. "In my institute, I found a room full of things that belonged to you-bats and katanas and a chocolate-covered baseball. In my closet, I found your suits hanging next to mine-blue silk, too big for me, but my favorite brand." He made every sentence sound like threat.

"Oh." Takeshi's smile wilted a bit. He still did not fully understand that. He could not understand why the future Hibari had accepted his future self. Hibari did not like anyone, except for maybe Dino-and even then, Takeshi harbored doubts. What was the attraction between Hibari and his future selves? With Squalo, he had figured out their attraction quickly-they understood each other perfectly. And he eventually understood that they would always lead separate lives, following two different masters, no matter how strong their attraction might be. But even after sleeping beside-though not with-the future Hibari, Takeshi could not understand how their future relationship might work.

"So you knew about that." Hibari stood up, and his bird flew off into a tree. "Dino refused to speak about it. He said I would figure it out on my own when the time was right."

"Yeah." Takeshi laughed again, this time from nervousness. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Your future self didn't go into many details, either."

"I see. Then that's another reason why you should fight me."

"It is?"

"Yes."

Takeshi sighed. Baseball practice had waited this long; it could wait a little longer. He set his bag down and pulled out Shigure Kintoki. After that, reality became a whirlwind of movement and action. Hibari attacked him without mercy, tonfas biting into flesh, and it took all of Takeshi's strength to remain upright. He focused on his blade, on the forms he should use, on the direction Hibari attacked from. Soon enough, he stopped thinking, and he simply fought with base feeling. Blood and pain and motion and power united into one concern: survival.

When the fight ended, Takeshi slumped to the ground. Shigure Kintoki lay on the grass several feet away from him, but before he could grab it, Hibari pinned him to the ground with a tonfa and straddled him. Takeshi suddenly understood what the attraction was, looking into Hibari's impenetrable black eyes, into that soft face with its sharp expression. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath drew short, and his hands trembled. Hibari was like baseball, like the sword-he was something that Takeshi had to learn to master, and if he did, it would open a whole new world of possibilities.

"Thought so," Hibari murmured and replaced the press of his tonfa to Takeshi's throat with the press of his lips to Takeshi's lips. He felt warm and heavy. Takeshi kissed back without hesitation and pulled Hibari closer, wondering if this was how it always began.

Fact: Of all the unusual items that Yamamoto Takeshi kept with him, his favorite was Hibari.

_**Owari.**_


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